


Upon the Thaw

by BlushingNewb



Series: Forces of Nature [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ACD Canon References, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, John Sings, M/M, Peril, Post Reichenbach, Romance, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Songfic, baker street irregulars - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 05:06:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/875934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlushingNewb/pseuds/BlushingNewb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes and John Watson face the perils of an exceptionally cold winter as they conduct an investigation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Upon the Thaw

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place after the events described in "The Storm." This piece was created in response to the Baker Street Irregulars Songfic Challenge and inspired by "Ever the Same" by Rob Thomas.

As his breath puffs out in a cloud before him, John Watson thinks to himself once again that this winter is one for the records. The weather turned nastily cold in early October and it snowed in November. The Thames froze just after Boxing Day and it remains mostly locked in ice now, mid-February. Only the midpoint of the river appears slushy in the moonlight, dark water seeming to trickle sluggishly beside bright ice. The river hadn’t frozen over since 1814 and the media had a field day with it. Last month, the British government declared the ice safe enough for recreational activities and a brief and jubilant Frost Fair was held. Waterway transit and commerce were halted, bringing unemployment and crime rates up, leaving Sherlock Holmes fit to be tied.

He is pacing on the ice now, back and forth, lost in thought, as John stands looking toward the middle of the river and the House of Commons. The two of them are on the Westminster side of the river and the Yard officials are on the bridge behind them with high-powered torches. It’s quite a beautiful night, in spite of the bitter cold, but something jars uncomfortably with John and he feels vaguely unsettled. He has been tetchy since he and Sherlock climbed down the makeshift metal ladder out onto the ice. The hairs on the back of his neck rise and he grits his teeth, determined not to let memories unsettle him.

He isn’t sure why now, of all times, he’s experiencing an onslaught of mental images of Sherlock lying on the ground [cold, unmoving, _falling_ ] but he comforts himself by turning and fixing his eyes on his dearest friend now as he strides away from him. Sherlock is tucked up in his Belstaff, blue scarf and the deerstalker with the flaps tied under the chin for once. In the years since his return, Sherlock had left off whining about the deerstalker and claimed it as his own, even going so far as to wear it indoors. John suspects he wears it out of pure spite toward the media and the world in general for doubting his genius.

With all of his usual grace he ignored John’s urgings tonight to adopt warmer headgear and snorted at the woolen watch cap John held out to him. For Christmas, Mrs. Hudson had knitted one in black for Sherlock and one in oatmeal for John, although he thinks she would have done better to forgo making anything for Sherlock at all in favor of socks or a jumper for himself. After a verbal diatribe, the detective did concede to some of his demands and he put on the most stylish and expensive base layer of slick merino thermal wear John had ever seen – black, of course – but not before chuckling over John’s waffle-knit long white pants and vest. John was a practical yet confident man, so he had playfully slapped Sherlock’s bare arse before commenting,

“You’re just jealous I look so sexy in white. It wouldn’t look half so good on you, what with your coloring.”

“Oh, yes, that’s exactly what I was thinking, well-spotted there.”

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Sherlock,” retorted John as he did up his zip over the long pants. _  
_

John’s thoughts are interrupted as he hears a distant creak in the ice. He looks up, about to caution his friend, but he knows that expression – he’s quite sure any warning would go unheard, so he merely sharpens his gaze on their surroundings and looks up to the bridge where Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson are waiting. Another creak sounds from the ice, and John swallows. He can’t quite shake the feeling of fogginess in his head, the memory of a pulse-less wrist in his hand. Instead, John thinks back to their conversation at the fourth lamppost of the bridge from the Westminster side, where Sherlock had stared at the blocked off area intently.

“John, what are we missing here?” Sherlock had asked.

“Well, it’s not the body. It’s not the perpetrator, she’s in custody, it’s not even the weapon. Donovan just radioed Lestrade that they found the gun in her wardrobe.”

Sherlock frowned.

“I need a different perspective,” he had said, before turning abruptly and walking from the crime scene. John followed, which had led them onto the ice, somewhat adjacent to the crime scene above.

* * *

Sherlock repeats himself now, something that rarely happens.

“John, what are we missing here?”

“I….don’t know. We covered body, perp, weapon…even motive.”

“John! That’s it, you’re right, amazing!” Sherlock said, jumping up, punching a fist in the air before landing somewhat clumsily on the ice.

“The motive’s too easy, too simple! I knew the angle of the bullet didn’t make sense. And of course – she’s an engineer, she would have known how to take advantage of the rungs. Brilliant and devious.”

Sherlock points above to the green railing that spans between the larger bridge pillars.

“You’ve got it, then?” John asked.

Grinning in the moonlight and making John’s stomach turn flip-flops, Sherlock answers,

“Not quite yet.”

To John’s horror, he turns and walks carefully out toward the center of the river.

“You great pillock, it’s all slush out in the middle!”

Sullenly, Sherlock answers,

“Oh, _please_ , the probable location for the gun is near the third arch, and the slush is dead center. I won’t come anywhere near it.”

Putting his head in his gloved hands, John croaks,

“You stupid idiot, be careful.”

“ ‘Stupid idiot,’ John, your sweet nothings are pure poetry,” Sherlock replies snarkily, and walks farther out onto the river, shining the torch ahead of him. John groans and follows behind him. His feet crunch on the ice and the sound shoots up through his legs. It sets his teeth on edge and alarm bells start ringing distantly in his head.

Ten meters above, Lestrade shines his torch below.

“Oi, what are you two doing down there?” Catching sight of Sherlock walking away from John and the bank, he shouts even louder.

“What in the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?! John, what in God’s name—“

Pausing where he stands, Sherlock shouts up at the bridge,

“Shut up, shut up, shut up! I’ve got it – look – just there -“

And stretching out his arm, Sherlock lights up a revolver lying atop a patch of thin ice about a meter and a half in front of him. Shouting again, Sherlock says,

“She was never murdered, she killed herself!”

John, ten paces behind, implores him,

“Yes, brilliant, Sherlock, as always, but can we please back away now. Lestrade’ll bring a net or a boat or divers or some such and we can get the hell off ---“

The ice lets out one long, loud crack in front of John, buckles and throws Sherlock into the middle of the Thames.

John is already falling after him, even if he doesn’t know where they’re going.

* * *

_-John, it’s cold, it’s so cold, John, I’m so sorry-_

Sherlock is underneath the water, underneath the ice, then he bobs up through the slush, then down again and it’s colder than he ever imagined, it _burns it burns the heart out….._ He forces his eyes open and looks for the moonlight. He’s being pulled by the current – _underneath the Westminster bridge_ – being pulled down by his coat and he thinks of warm things [like John] but then he sinks down further and he panics. He sucks in a mouth of water but then thrashes back and suddenly he is being gripped by a hand and pulled up.

“Sherlock, Sh-Sherlock, d-don’t move, don’t move, don’t st-struggle! Breathe, Sherlock, br-breathe, not this time, dammit!”

Sherlock coughs and coughs, trying not to slap out at the water, before breathing in and it’s so, so cold. It’s John, of course, it’s always John who has him now, dear John, [beloved] John who is stripping his coat off even as they’re floating in the Thames. The coat sinks below after tangling in Sherlock’s arms briefly and then it’s gone.

The Thames current pulls them toward the Hungerford bridges – _opened in 1845 as a suspension bridge, 1845 is thirty-one years after the last Frost Fair until this year, this strange year when the Thames froze again_ – and John is trying to keep them afloat.

John knows that they don’t have much time before hypothermia sets in and he is terrified that they will not stay in the middle of the river where the water is unfrozen, that they will be pushed under the ice to drown. But John also knows that if they do fall under the ice they will at least drown together. He knows now that if he hadn’t jumped in Sherlock would have been pulled down by his coat, alone. He knows, too, that he cannot survive again without Sherlock so he really had no choice at all. 

Sherlock is aware that he and John are floating together, but it’s so cold, even with John’s arm around him. He keeps his left hand gripped around something, he can’t remember what it is, but he knows he can’t let it go. Sherlock does recall seeing something else important earlier and he tries to bring back the image from his warm mind palace of…..a rectangular structure…it floats…..there’s a yellow buoy….

A rubbish trap!

“J-J-Jo-John….”

_Johnjohnjohn_

It’s so difficult to speak, his throat is full of cold fire. He tries again.

“J-John, John, float a li-little longer, k-kick some….just b-b-before Waterloo there’s a-a-a-a-a…..rub-rubbish trap.”

“Yes, y-yes, buh-buh-brilliant.”

They shiver terribly together and the current carries them a little more before John catches sight of the aforementioned rubbish trap. It’s mostly locked into the Thames ice while part of it juts out into the melted center.

“N-need to r-r-reach out your right a-a-arm. Reach it ou-ou-out and I’ll kuh-kuh-kick.”

“Yes, mm-hmm.”

He answers dully, and John doesn’t really know for certain how long they’ve been in the water, he isn’t quite keeping track of time well, but he knows that their thoughts are already sluggish and they need to get out now, soonest, or later will never come.

It’s John who actually bumps into the rubbish trap first, and he reaches out his arm, which lands like a slab of concrete on top of the wooden ridge. The trap is solidly stuck into the ice and it doesn’t waver; John clings to it with his right arm. He wraps Sherlock’s right arm around the wooden ledge. John kicks one leg over the ledge after three tries and then pulls himself out of the river. His whole body feels heavy and his head feels like it’s stuffed with fleece. He pulls at Sherlock’s collar and he turns slowly in the current, his arm falling back into the water.

“Sher-l-lock, ha-have to geh-get out. Ha-have t-t-to get up, cuh-cuh-come on.

Sherlock doesn’t answer. He only blinks at him slowly from upside down, his blue gaze unfocused up toward the sky, wet hair wrapping over his forehead and unfurling in curls behind him. John sees his plump lips turned grey and full-blown panic shoots through him. He’s fueled by pure rage now, and he starts screaming through his shivers, Captain Watson taking over.

“Get up, come on, get the fuck up, I won’t let you fall again! Get the fuck up, now!”

He won’t let go of Sherlock and he’s not sure he even can. He pulls, pulls – _catches him this time_ – pulls him by the back collar up onto the wooden planking. He feels like his frozen heart is about to sink into his stomach, but he drags them both onto the ice before collapsing.

They lie there, clinging to one another in the moonlight with the barely lapping water of the Thames sounding in their ears. It’s been less than ten minutes since they entered the water but it feels far longer than that.

* * *

When Greg Lestrade sees John jump in after Sherlock, a steady stream of profanity begins to build up in his brain. It becomes an ever-evolving litany of curse words that swell like the tide as he runs off of the bridge and alongside the river. He’s incandescent with unspent fury but he saves his breath for the moment when he can unleash it all at those two-- (no, save it). Donovan’s close behind his heels, shouting for an ambulance – good woman in a pinch, Donovan – and Greg’s doing all he can to keep his eyes on the two men in the river.

He runs because there’s no point in getting in a car, not when he can’t look away from the two as they struggle, so he runs as fast as he can to keep pace, hoping that somehow the two lunatics will not be pulled under the ice. His list of swear words becomes an internal chant, growing to a number greater than twenty. It’s easier to focus on his insults than to notice how the men are moving less and less as they’re pulled farther down the Thames.

* * *

Lestrade and Donovan are the first on the ice after struggling down the Savoy Pier (pushing the restaurant patrons out of the way had been interesting) and they spot the two men upriver somewhat, piled next to a rubbish trap. Greg is forced by the ice to slow down and he pants as he approaches Sherlock and John. He opens his mouth, ready to begin his verbal abuse with the word “goddammit” when he sees that they are both lying motionless. He almost laughs as he takes in the sight – Sherlock’s left arm is thrown backwards and he’s holding a gun limply in his gloved hand – but he catches himself.

The two of them look insensible at first, except Greg sees Sherlock’s mouth moving like he’s trying to speak. John is sprawled farther back behind him, with a hand wound tightly around his collar. Sherlock has a death grip on John’s left knee. They’re both pale and shivering violently, and Greg is dismayed when he sees that their lips are blue. He forgets the rest of his profane prayer and, panting, turns to Donovan instead.

“I’ll try and keep these two comfortable. Go meet the ambulance – it’s on its way.”

Sherlock’s mouth never stops moving and Greg bends down further to see if there is an audible whisper, convinced that he’s about to hear a ruthless synopsis of his own stupidity or a rapid case summary.

“John. Sorry. Beloved.”

Sherlock repeats these three words over and over again, and something pops deep inside of Greg’s chest. He’s always hoped that Sherlock had it in him to be a good man, and it’s something rare and marvelous that he’s seeing and hearing now.

It’s more rare than a frozen Thames, that’s for sure.

* * *

Initially the two men are pliant and allow the EMTs to pry them apart and place them on stretchers. Greg notes with some satisfaction that, for once, Sherlock is not able to practice his particular form of deductive torture upon the medical care workers. But as soon as the EMTs carry Sherlock out of John’s sight, he starts screaming with an energy Greg hadn’t known he’d reserved.

“No, no, no! No, he’s my friend! Please, let me through….”

Greg is distressed to see that he becomes increasingly upset, rising off his own stretcher on the ground and shoving the EMT beside him hard onto the ice. He stumbles up onto his feet and runs five paces before slamming back down. He’s still screaming and he starts crawling on his belly along the ice.

_Oh, Jesus_

Greg can’t move but he feels like he’s about to vomit. He’s read some of the witness reports of the leap from St. Bart’s but he tried to forget them when he knew that Sherlock was really back. He has no idea how to set this right but it’s making him sick at heart. Just as Greg goes to crouch beside John to try and comfort him, he sees the EMTs with Sherlock hastily making their way back to his location. They had only managed to get about five meters away. Sherlock is trying to rise from the stretcher, barely being held down by….Sally?

“Put him down here, put him down, or they’ll both be worse off than they are now!” Sally yells at the EMTs.

She turns to John and shakes him by the shoulder,

“Look John, look, it’s ok, he’s right here. Sherlock, it’s John, show him that you’re ok, show him.”

Sherlock stretches out his hand to John and squeezes his arm; John finally stops trying to get up from the ice and shivers. Greg puts a hand over his own face and clears his throat. He thinks fast and addresses the EMTs.

“Alright, lads, alright. I think we’re okay now. Can we keep these two in line of sight of each other on our way up to the ambulance?”

The one that John shoved down onto the ice says,

“Sure, DI. We’ve got no problem with that, but we’ve got the two ambulances up there. The wet clothes are going to have to come off ASAP or the hypothermia’s only going to get worse.”

Greg takes a leap of faith.

“Don’t see why they need two ambulances. This one here,” he says, pointing to John, “is a doctor, and they’re best mates anyway. Just get their clothes off and pile blankets on top of ‘em both. Don’t think they’ll notice or care much in their state.”

Sally nods.

“I think that’s a good idea, sir. They’ll be more cooperative that way.”

The three EMTs look at each other and shrug. One of them says,

“Don’t see anything wrong with that. Let’s just get ‘em up and off the ice.”

Once they get John back onto the stretcher, Greg himself helps to carry him so that the two men can see one another the entire time.

* * *

An EMT slams the ambulance doors shut and Greg turns to Donovan, crossing his arms.

“So…..how long have you known?”

“Sir, I didn’t know for sure until tonight, but even before….those two belong together. Sherlock was going mad, trying to get up and kick one of the techs carrying him. He couldn’t talk at all – imagine that – but it looked like he kept trying to call John's name.”

Greg scrunches his face up contemplatively.

“Sally….I thought you hated Sherlock.”

“Oh, yeah, don’t get me wrong, he’s still a freak. But he needs the doctor. And the doctor needs him. It would be like a crime to keep them apart, and not in a good way, a Sherlock way, you know.”

“Yeah, I know exactly what you mean. Still, I guess we’ll get the whole story tomorrow. Let’s pack it in.”

Greg hopes they’ll be able to roll up the equipment and start the paperwork relatively soon. He wonders if Molly is on duty tonight at St. Bart’s and if she likes mocha lattes. He and his ex-wife finalized the divorce last month, and it occurs to him that life is too short and fragile not to take risks. He palms through his mobile, looking for the number to the morgue.

* * *

The two men are in an emergency bed together seated side-by-side, dressed in hospital gowns and wrapped up in numerous blankets. They had each snarled threateningly at the receiving nurse’s attempt to process them separately and the delivering EMT pulled her aside for a brief word. Their shivering has finally stopped, and John rests his head against Sherlock’s shoulder; Sherlock puts his arm around him.

Sherlock’s ears perk up at a tapping in the corridor outside and he tenses; just as John is about to inquire, the curtain is pulled open and Mycroft steps inside, umbrella in hand. His only concession to the cold weather seems to be his navy overcoat. Sherlock and John remain motionless on the bed, crowding next to each other.

“Oh, little brother, ever so dramatic. The first time you fall into the Thames would have to be when there’s a two hundred year freeze.”

Sherlock just glares at him in response, not deigning to reply to his comment.

“And you, Dr. Watson….I have you to thank, once again, for rescuing Sherlock from a life-threatening situation. I am most grateful for your intervention.”

Sherlock snorts, finally breaking his silence.

“Honestly, Mycroft, you can just call him John, it’s been years now. And yes, he’s indispensible to me in every way, don’t be daft.”

One side of Mycroft’s face twitches (John almost thinks he's smiling rather than sneering) and he looks directly at John.

“Yes, so I’ve taken the liberty-“

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“-the liberty of having a car brought round to take you both back to Baker Street. You’ve been discharged. I also called Mrs. Hudson and she insisted on building up a fire for you.”

John, taking the lead in manners, says,

“Thank you, Mycroft. We appreciate that.”

Sherlock pulls blankets off and stalks around looking for his shoes, ignoring his brother.

“You’re entirely welcome, John. I suggest that as soon as you’re home you wash off the filth of the Thames and warm up—“

“Yes, we get it. Do shut up now before you put me off talking to you for the next year.”

John sighs and raises a shoulder, staring resignedly at Mycroft. He has never imagined a positive consequence for interfering with the brothers’ vitriolic exchanges. The man’s arrogance drives him round the twist but it also privately amuses John that Sherlock gets stroppy if he even hears Mycroft’s name. The relationship between the brothers is strained but enduring, much like death, taxes or the solar system.

“Well, then, gentlemen, please do stay safe. I’ll be seeing you very soon.”

Mycroft raises both of his eyebrows at this last statement then turns from the room, closing the curtain behind him.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

“Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth.”

* * *

Mycroft is a liar. As soon as they walk in, it’s clear to John that he didn’t just phone Mrs. Hudson.

“Oh, God, his minions have been here, lighting fires and delivering…..gifts!”

Sherlock spits out the last word, trying to swirl disdainfully around their sitting room but failing miserably in borrowed hospital scrubs. He plops onto the sofa fretfully, leaving John to bring in the bag of their Thames-soaked clothing.

“I’m not surprised. Your brother loves to meddle. But…..this type of meddling! I’m not so sure it’s a bad thing…..”  
  
He takes in the scene in their sitting room. There’s a large basket on the table with a mountain of linens in it; perched on top of the bedding are two sleek mobile phones. One is the model Sherlock has been using; the other is an iPhone8 and accompanying charger that John has recently coveted. John is perturbed by Mycroft’s prescience and his discomfort only grows when he sees that his most frequently used numbers are already programmed. He wordlessly sets aside Sherlock’s replacement phone.

The rest of the basket contains the most luxurious blankets John has ever seen. They’re only missing the Harrods labels; John is pretty sure that they’re cashmere or fibre from some other exotic and expensive animal. Underneath the blankets is a plush duvet with a soft, cotton cover. He turns around; in each of the chairs is a bulky package wrapped in brown paper. Sherlock gets up and pounces on the package in his chair.

“Oh, God, what is this fresh hell? I hesitate to ask….”

He rips open the package and John is astounded to see his grey coat (or at least its identical twin) tumble out onto the floor. It’s followed by a woven blue scarf and another suspicious-looking wrapped package.

Of course it’s the deerstalker.

John feels a strange lump rising in his throat. Mycroft is such a smug bastard, but he obviously _worries_ constantly.

“I will write him a thank you note from us,” he chokes, not knowing what else to say.

“Oh, don’t bother. He’s really just delighted to hold something over us in his typically sinister fashion.”

John, not for the first time, ignores Sherlock and opens the package in his chair. It’s a coat, shoes and jumper nearly identical to the ones that are still soaked from the river. At least he doesn’t have to worry about his brown shoes stinking like Thames sewage now.

Sherlock is sulking by the table, prodding at the contents of the basket.

“It’s disgusting, really, how he tries to pander to us.”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

“Go get into the shower and get clean. I’ll join you shortly after I make tea, then we will proceed to defile the lovely new eiderdown and blankets as we recover from hypothermia. Doctor’s orders.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond but he ceases poking at the bedding and wanders off to the bathroom. John smiles to himself, but there’s still a lingering sadness in his eyes.

* * *

Sherlock is certain that John knows his arrogance is only window dressing at this point in the night. Now that he’s no longer in front of him he allows his shoulders to shake underneath the showerhead. There’s a stubborn coldness in his chest that has nothing to do with overexposure.

The evidence was important - essential, even to resolving the case. He feels a sense of satisfaction and pride for concluding it, but the feeling of regret looms larger in his mind. He had overestimated the durability of the ice and he had not anticipated that John would follow him into the river. They could so easily have drowned tonight, and it would have been his fault, his fault that John…. He considers this one of his greatest failures – he would do anything to save John, he already had - and a cold shame pricks at his eyes. Sherlock pushes his thumb and fingers into his eyes and feverishly scrubs himself with John’s soap. He needs to feel John all over him right now, and he rubs his shampoo into his scalp.

He hears his friend shut the bathroom door and toss the scrubs into a pile. When he steps into the shower with him, Sherlock moves away so the shorter man can get under the water. He rinses himself and looks up at him with a twinkle in his eye.

“You’re using my product. What’s that all about – I thought it was inferior?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply but picks up his own shampoo and proceeds to rub it into John’s hair.

“I see, the silent treatment,” He chuckles and accepts his ministrations, though, and sighs as he relaxes into his massage. He allows the pampering to continue as Sherlock takes his own soap and lathers him all over, swallowing hard as he perfunctorily cleans his arse, bollocks and now-erect cock.

Sherlock pushes him into the water to rinse and then clasps him to his chest, his other hand fisted into his hair.

“No,” Sherlock murmurs into his ear.

“I beg your pardon?”

“No, it’s not inferior. Nothing about you is inferior. Nothing. You’re everything to me. I’m…..sorry about tonight. I’m sorry for who I am.”

“Oh, Sherlock…..” John is trying not to become upset. He can’t have this conversation without crying and exposing his melted heart.

“John, shhh. I was rather out of my wits but I remember everything you said tonight. You don’t have to say it again. I listened to everything, I _heard_ it, I promise. Shh, you don’t have to talk now….just listen to me….”

He strokes John’s cheek and angles his face upwards, placing the gentlest of kisses on his lips.

“John. Beloved.”

He breathes it directly into his mouth.

John flinches, gripping his back tightly. Sherlock has never used this endearment, never let the word “love” fall from his lips without the same rancor he uses to say, “sentiment.”

He moves his lips over to the right, directly onto his cheek.

“John. Beloved.”

He says it into John’s mouth again before moving to his left cheek. He whispers it into each of his ears, kissing, then speaking. He says it as he kisses down his neck, slowly moving to his shoulders, repeating it every time his lips graze his skin. Every tenth kiss he moves back to his mouth to kiss and say it again. He moves behind him and presses kisses down his spine, speaking the words over and over again. He kisses the scarred skin all around the entry point of John’s wound, blessing him.

Sherlock kisses and speaks to him until the two words mingle together and have the same meaning, a love chant, an invocation.

John caresses him tenderly throughout this one-sided conversation, so grateful that his words are not needed. His pulse has steadily risen as his lover makes his way south, and a slow flush has followed along his body to meet the words spoken into his skin.

Sherlock kneels in front of him, nuzzling at his scrotum and nest of dark blond hair, kissing him and speaking the words several more times. He presses kisses down his legs until he is crouching at his feet, then he rises once again to his knees, raising his head to meet his eyes in the shower spray. He’s like a pre-Raphaelite painting of an Odyssean sailor come to life, with his head upturned and the flowing water outlining his muscles. John looks at the length of his kneeling body including his long, hardened cock – a very masculine sailor, indeed. That such a striking man has chosen to couple with his own very ordinary self still bewilders him.

“Sherlock, oh, love, you are divinely beautiful….” he groans, cupping his hands around his cheeks.

“Johnbeloved,” Sherlock says, then leans forward to repeat the kiss at the head of his cock, parting his lips just slightly. John groans, trying not to dig his fingers into his hair. He kisses and murmurs all the way up before going back down, licking his fluid delicately from his slit and swallowing him suddenly up to the root.

“Aagh! Sherlock!"

He hums with John filling his mouth and he is certain that even now Sherlock is speaking to him and he can hear the love words all around him, thrumming in every part of his body. He bobs his head up and down gently, banishing all of the cold from John’s most cherished lower extremity.

“Unfgh….your mouth, Sherlock….”

On the upstroke Sherlock rubs his tongue against the frenulum and John recalls the heated research session in which they read about this technique together and practiced it shortly afterward. He quickens his pace now, sucking tightly every time he pulls up.

John is a good man, but he’s not a saint. So instead of ruining this moment by grabbing his lover roughly and thrusting frantically into his mouth, he breaks away and pulls him up by gripping him from behind his elbows.

He pants,

“Please, let’s dry off. I…need more, want to give you more. Let’s go to the bedroom.”

Without saying anything further, he shuts off the water and they dry one another.

* * *

Hands clasped, the two men fall together into the new, luxurious bedding. Their skin is still flushed from the shower and their hair is damp; they’ve warmed up considerably. John has brought the lubricant from the bathroom, planning two steps ahead. Sherlock has thought out the night’s activities through the next ten steps, but he doesn’t yet realize that John’s design is different from his.

John rolls Sherlock onto his side and kisses him deeply, dipping his tongue into his mouth after tracing his lips. He kisses his way down his face and past his ears, grazing his lips across his pulse point and reaching down to gently fist his cock.

“Mmm…..” He thrusts up into his grasp, curling his fingers into his hair with his free hand.

“Yes, let me, Sherlock, love, that’s it. Let me give, too.”

He continues stroking him and murmurs into his neck.

“You hate repeating yourself. Why did you…..say that….repeat that?”

He stops moving into John’s grip and trails his fingers along his cheek.

“It’s not repetition. Every time I say it I mean it a different way. There are an infinite number of permutations.”

_Johnbeloved means him telling me to run. Johnbeloved means him kissing me on the lips last Tuesday. Johnbeloved means him kissing me on the lips yesterday. Johnbeloved means him in his red button shirt holding a mug at 10am on April 23 rd, 2010. Johnbeloved means him saying “Sherlock” when I touched his bare shoulder on December 5, 2013. Johnbeloved means him listening to me play Biber’s Passacaglia. Johnbeloved means him knowing why I wanted to take that pill. Johnbeloved means him singing in the shower this morning. Johnbeloved means the hair on his upper thighs turning gold in the sunlight. Johnbeloved means him watching me fall because I asked him to. Johnbeloved means him calling me his friend. Johnbeloved means the gold color of his pupillary iris. Johnbeloved means him forgiving me for falling. Johnbeloved means him lifting the safety on his gun at 2:30am January 7th, 2014.  Johnbeloved means handing his mobile to me one minute after we met. Johnbeloved means him jumping into the Thames after me tonight…._

John hadn’t planned on crying tonight or any night in fact, but tears start rolling out of his eyes onto Sherlock’s fingers. He kisses the salty water as it pours down his cheeks and murmurs,

“Johnbeloved.”

A sob racks John’s body and he says,

“I love you, you brilliant, mad, beautiful man. I’ll always love you.”

 _Johnbeloved means him crying because_ he _loves_ me _._

“I’ve always thought crying was _not good_ , but this is an unexpected development.”

“Yes, you git, I should say it is.”

He wipes away the tears, but kisses him on the mouth again, deeply, and resumes stroking his cock.

“I still need to warm you up, Sherlock.”

“I’ve been waiting to hear you say that.” He reaches over eagerly and grabs the lube that John brought. Sherlock slithers onto his back with his cock jutting out from his body, smiling beguilingly, holding the open container out.

“Here…..you may proceed.”

“Hmm, no, not what I had in mind.”

He sits back up abruptly, a very rare look of confusion flickering across his brow. John relishes the expression on his face. When it came to physical intimacy, Sherlock was a quick study, but John still had the capacity to surprise him. In the past few months, they had explored many activities together and received a clean bill of health, but there were still a few corners to turn. So much of their relationship was new to both of them. They moved slowly, repeated their favorites and invited the other partner to new stages.

John had yet to be penetrated by Sherlock. He hadn’t reserved this activity for any particular reason; they’d both experimented with their fingers, and Sherlock had eagerly asked him to breach him only a few weeks earlier. This was the perfect time for John to reciprocate.

John rolls onto his own back and spreads his knees wide apart, placing one hand behind his head. He smirks up at Sherlock and starts stroking his own cock, touching the bead of fluid on the tip and rubbing it along his length before canting his hips up. It’s a clear invitation. Encouragingly, John says,

“I had in mind that you proceed with me. I’m going to warm you up by taking you inside.”

John can tell from his expression that he’s both pleased and somewhat disappointed. His eyes are bright and his tongue slips out over his bottom lip, but he isn’t smiling.

“But John….I wanted to warm you.”

“Hmm, you did that plenty well in the shower. I am definitely warmer than you. Feel?”

So saying, he wraps Sherlock’s hand over his hot cock. He watches as he breathes a little faster and licks his tongue over his bottom lip again. Ever so slowly, his pupils dilate in the lamplight.

“Now, love, I’m asking you to fuck me. This is something I’ve wanted for a while, and there’s no better time than now.”

Sherlock smiles with the broad grin that he saves just for John.

“I have to admit, it’s very difficult for me to refuse you anything when you’re spread for me like this. That you let me touch you this way at all….the sight of you is quite…compelling. You’re a very attractive man, John.”

John flushes to his ears even as Sherlock is stroking him; for a moment he’s speechless.

“Ok, now, I said _I_ was going to warm you up. If you keep the touching and compliments coming, this won’t last very long at all.”

They both chuckle and Sherlock ceases the stroking, leaning over him and kissing him on the lips. He leans back somewhat and folds his legs underneath himself, sitting on his heels. Sherlock then wraps his hands beneath John’s hips, encouraging him to lift up so he can put a pillow beneath him. He runs both hands back and forth from John’s knees up to the center of his thighs. John relaxes into the motion and spreads his legs even further apart. Sherlock hums approvingly and pours the lubricant out on his hands, breathing gently on it to warm it.

“Sherlock….talk to me, tell me everything as you do it.”

He takes in a sharp breath, thinking of how much he loved John speaking to him during his first time.

“Yes, of course. Go ahead and touch yourself; it will help you relax. First, I’m going to rub your perineum.”

John wraps his hand around himself and sighs as the fingers of Sherlock’s right hand trail downward, curving beneath his scrotum. His lover places his other hand high on John’s thigh, soothingly rubbing it. It’s all very pleasant, and he exhales slowly, arching up for Sherlock’s fingers. He watches his face; there’s a look of intense concentration and his pale eyes are narrowed. A flattering blush spreads across his cheeks and a thrill runs down John’s spine.

“Now I’m going to lube the exterior of your anus…..” Agile fingers circle around his ring, not pushing, but massaging gently. John closes his eyes and the delicate touches send a pulse of heat up through his cock.

“That’s right, just relax. Now…..one finger.”

Sherlock pushes in as he bears down.

“Oh, yeah,” John says softly, blinking rapidly.

“Good, really good. You’ve let me in, John….that’s good.” These last words are said rather thickly and the combination of sensation and his voice are doing things to John’s insides that he wishes could go on forever. As Sherlock looks into his eyes and back down to his fingers the flush on his cheeks spreads down to his chest. The finger stretches him gently, and John moans, thrusting through his fist. He grits his teeth and forces himself to take his hand off his cock.

“Please, Sherlock, another. I’m ready.”

“Alright….”

He pulls his first finger out.

“Bear down again…..now two fingers…..”

“Ssss….it’s ok….keep it up.”

John has had two fingers before but remembers the burn afterward. He forces himself to breathe, and then relaxes as the fingers slide all the way in. He can feel the contours of the two separate digits as they press against his walls. John hears ragged panting and he opens his eyes as he realizes that it’s coming from him.

“Work me open….the way I did….”

“Yes. I’m going to turn my fingers now, slowly. Good, John, breathe into it. Um, you’re very….tight.”

John hears the “um” and the hairs on the back of his neck rise. When Sherlock starts saying “um,” “hmm,” or “er” it means that he’s intensely aroused and the higher tiers of his vocabulary are crumbling away. He unintentionally clenches around the fingers.

“God…..er, are you doing alright? You’re clenching.” He raises his head to look at John’s face, worried, brows drawn down. 

“I’m good, I’m good, keep going.” He raises his head to reassure him. John feels himself stretching against the fingers to accommodate them and a low pressure starts to build against his pelvis.

“I’m going to touch your prostate now….”

“Ngh, yeah, that’s it!” John writhes around on his fingers, grabbing at the sheets as flames dance behind his eyes. The tight bundle of nerve tissue under the skin throbs and Sherlock strokes around it, grazing it rather than engaging it directly. John forces himself to open his eyes and sees Sherlock’s chest rise and fall more rapidly; he’s worrying his lower lip with his teeth and staring down at his buried fingers. 

“Ok, now more. Get me ready, more lube.”

“Er, are you sure? You’re very tight.”

“Sherlock, three fingers now!” 

John’s tone brooks no argument, so he squeezes out more lube and applies it before adding another digit. Sherlock pushes into him slowly and holds his fingers in place. 

“Alright, they’re in. This….you….you look so good, so open for me. More?”

John can feel Sherlock trembling inside of him and beside his thighs. He is slightly overwhelmed by the sting, but it’s mostly good, and he does want more. He’s marveling at the way his muscles have loosened to permit Sherlock’s nimble fingers.

“Yes, _please_ more, God yes. Work me open…..”

Sherlock wrinkles his brow slightly but he relents, pushing in and out of him slowly; each stroke inside shoots up into John’s cock and more clear fluid drips down him than ever before. He’s aching but he’s afraid to touch himself and come too quickly.

“Now, um, I’m going to go a little faster…..”

He does and John starts moaning in earnest. Sherlock’s fingers dig into his hip and there’s a look of naked lust on his face. He feels a building pressure and is overcome all at once by a desperate need to be entirely filled, to feel Sherlock pressed against him and inside him. He reaches his hands down to grab for his lover’s wrists.  
  
“Mmmm, no more, lube yourself, it’s time.”

The fingers are withdrawn, and he gasps at the sudden emptiness. There’s a slick sound and Sherlock hovers over him, rubbing his own cock before slathering some lube along John’s abdomen. John pulls his face to him and kisses him, licking into his mouth and nibbling at his lower lip. He hooks his legs over Sherlock’s shoulders and strokes his thumb along his face.

“Go ahead, love, I’m ready.”

He backs away slightly, and John feels his slick head at his entrance. He forces himself to stare into Sherlock’s silvery eyes and it’s too late, he’s falling.

“Oh, God, I’m right here….it’s…”

“Do it, please….I feel you….oh, please….”

Sherlock braces himself against the bed and pushes in partway. John cries out sharply, then again.

“Keep going, don’t stop!”

He thrusts all the way in and passes by his prostate on the way there. A wave of pleasure-pain surges through John’s body and his cock twitches on his stomach in response. There’s fullness and heat inside of him all at once and he can’t understand why they didn’t get to this activity sooner. He can feel the contours of his lover’s cock; his smooth shaft and the subtle ridge preceding his head, buried deepest inside of him. It’s enough to make his eyes roll back in his head.

“Sherlock, ngh, I love you!”

“You’re indescribable, John…oh, you’re tight and hot….oh, John!” There’s a wide-eyed look of innocence on his face that makes him look very young. It’s breathtaking and John is beyond grateful that this is something he can give to Sherlock. It’s so good and John feels like he’s drowning. He grins up at his lover, tears in his eyes.

“I told you I’d warm you up, love.”

Sherlock reaches to touch a finger to a single tear that rolls down his cheek and raises it to his mouth, tasting.

“Johnbeloved.”

“Oh, Sherlock….”

He clenches purposefully around him, signaling him to move.

“Ahhh, John!” He thrusts back down into him, trying to find a rhythm. John works with him, showing him the way with his heels in the small of his back, and Sherlock’s arms circle around his lower back, pulling him even closer.

“That’s right, go on,” John encourages him. Sherlock thrusts steadily and shallowly for a time, but the pacing drives John mad. He whispers into his ear,

“Faster, harder. I can handle it.”

Sherlock obliges and slams into him and he sees sparks behind his eyes. John cries out repeatedly, threading one hand into Sherlock's hair and another around his neck. He can feel Sherlock all over and inside of him and it’s too good….Sherlock groans into his neck with each thrust and John feels the heat in his cock surge at the sound of his lover losing control.

“John, I need….”

“That’s it, love….”

“John, please….are you… I can’t wait….”

He can _feel_ him tense and throb inside of him and it’s the most erotic sensation of his life. Sherlock slips one shaking hand to John's abdomen, fumbling for his cock, and John releases his hold of the dark curls to reach for him. Together they stroke just three times before it’s all over and John is battered by an exquisite warm pleasure up through his teeth. His spasms reverberate outside and in, and as he spurts hotly onto himself and his lover, Sherlock gives a great cry of “John” and shudders all over.

John feels liquidy and loose and he breathes damply into Sherlock’s neck. They pant for some moments together before Sherlock places a sloppy kiss on his forehead and flops almost bonelessly beside him. He wipes them both with the new blankets; John tries not to wince as the luxury fibre soaks up their fluids.

“That was incredible, John. Amazing.”

“Hmmm, I loved it, too, as I’m sure you deduced. Are you finally warm now?”

“Yes. But what if you become cold later due to delayed aftereffects of hypothermia?”

John giggles; it’s obvious what Sherlock is thinking.

“I’m sure your brilliant mind will be able to posit a solution to that problem.”

“John?”

John lies still.

“Yes?”

“I am sorry.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean I’m sorry because I’m going to text Lestrade that I solved the case.”

“Yes, I know that, too. It’s who you are – I know this. But how about you just get your new mobile and do it here?”

Grinning wildly, Sherlock says,

“Really?”

“Yes, of course. Trying to change you would be like telling the Thames when it can go in or out. It’s better to just hang on for the ride.”

“Your simile lacks some sophistication but I appreciate being compared to a force of nature.”

“Sherlock, hurry the hell up before your bony arse gets cold.”

He scrambles out and back in before the warm spot in the bed has a chance to cool. John doesn’t mind the glow from the phone as he falls asleep.

* * *

In deference to their ordeal, Lestrade drops by 221B alone late in the afternoon and hears violin music….accompanied by singing? It’s a gentle and sonorous tenor, so it must be John, but he’s never heard him singing before. His voice is well in tune with the violin. Greg skips the creaky step and listens.

_Come ye merry men all_

_Of Watermen’s Hall_

_Let’s hoist our boats and caressing;_

_The Thames it does melt,_

_And the cold is scarce felt,_

_Let’s put down each skull_

_That hung up in hall,_

_Like weapon so rusty, and row;_

_Let’s cheerly fall tot,_

_If we’ve not forgot;_

_For the Frost is over now._

Greg has heard this tune before, but not these words. But it makes sense to him that if it’s Sherlock and John the song would have skulls and weapons in it somewhere. It’s perfect. He finishes walking up the stair and enters the flat.

The sitting room is as disheveled as he’s ever seen it. Books are hanging off the shelves and music is scattered everywhere. There’s random rubbish all over the floor and table, but John is sitting in his chair holding an ancient-looking book, unperturbed. He’s in his robe and pajamas. Sherlock, in pajama bottoms and grey shirt, has his violin in hand and is playing an instrumental version of the song. He halts and puts down the violin before turning away from the window just slightly.

“I’m glad to see you two are alright. I was frankly scared shitless last night. Sherlock, no evidence is worth risking your life.”

John stares pointedly at the detective over his book, and he responds to Greg with a noncommittal,

“Hmmm.”

Greg beams at John. It’s the closest Sherlock has ever gotten to an apology to him. John gestures for him to take a seat in the empty chair. Sherlock flops gracefully on the sofa and shifts his full attention to Greg.

“Have you figured it out yet?”

“No, actually, I haven’t. Would you summarize for me?”

Sherlock grins and Greg sees John smiling, too.

“Lucy Gibson framed Grace Dunbar by shooting herself. She was an engineer. She put a duplicate revolver in Grace’s wardrobe to implicate her. Lucy suffered from major depressive disorder; she would gain many things by framing Ms. Dunbar. Grace would be imprisoned for life, depriving her husband Neil of his lover. Neil Gibson would be punished and Lucy would no longer have to suffer from her mental anguish. Very clever – it would have worked if Lucy hadn’t miscalculated the fall of the gun into the Thames. It didn’t hit the unfrozen portion but instead landed on the ice.”

“Well, most of the ice,” John murmurs from his chair.

“Hmmm, yes. The gun was also wrapped around the jutting portion of the ice with the weight and cord.”

Greg gets up.

“Well, that seems to be that. I’ll write it up but I need you two to come in tomorrow for the final review.”

“That won’t be a problem,” John responds, standing up to see him out. At the door he holds out his hand.

“You and Donovan last night….that was good. Please tell her so from us. And thank you for everything, Greg.”

Greg shakes his hand vigorously.

“It’s not a problem, John. You and he just try and stay on dry land from now on. There’s only one Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.”

“Lestrade,” Sherlock interjects from the sofa. He’s staring at the ceiling now, hands steepled on his chest.

“Yes?”

“How is Molly today?”

“She’s well. Wait - how….?”

“You’ve got glove powder on your cuffs. Also…..there are two long brown hairs on your jacket front. And chocolate on the corner of your mouth. Molly rather favours chocolate.”

Sherlock raises his head and winks at him. Greg suddenly feels warm all over and he bursts out laughing as John opens the door for him.

* * *

A thick, cream-colored envelope arrived at the Diogenes Club the following Wednesday afternoon. As he indulged in an off-season treacle toffee, which effectively sealed his jaw shut for some minutes, Mycroft Holmes slid a lethal-looking letter opener into the envelope. A simple card, folded in half, read:

**Thank you for your well wishes after our recent foray into the Thames. We are most grateful for your warmth and kindness.**

**Sincerely,**

**Mr. Sherlock Holmes**

**Dr. John H. Watson**

It was written entirely in the doctor’s handwriting, but Mycroft flipped open his mobile anyway.

_You’re welcome. **MH**_

At the flat, Sherlock smiled to himself.

_Enjoy the treacle, Mycroft. **SH**_

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock is the property of the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat. "Ever the Same" is the property of Rob Thomas. Sherlock Holmes is public domain. My thanks to Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> References to major depressive disorder are based on an interpretation of the character Mrs. Gibson as described in "The Problem of Thor Bridge," by Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> Near the end of the story Sherlock and John are performing a portion of "The Thames Uncasd OR The Watermen's Song Upon the Thaw," set to the tune of "Hey Boys, Up We Go."


End file.
